


(Kiss Him) First

by Dansnotavampire



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Cute Ending, Fucked Up, Gay, Gay male characters, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspective Bullshit, Ish?? - Freeform, Kepler makes a man kill himself via Maxwell, M/M, Murder, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Second Person, Trans Daniel Jacobi, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, but cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 00:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12805443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dansnotavampire/pseuds/Dansnotavampire
Summary: A series of moments, passings, and visitations.





	(Kiss Him) First

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly this was sitting in my wips so I added a final paragraph. There's no editing honestly what am I doing

The first time that Daniel Jacobi, your new second in command, knocks on your door late at night, you turn him away. The second time, you tell him that he's a professional, and that behaving like this is beneath him. The third time, he's drunk and alone and he looks impossibly _sad,_ so you let him stay the night. His phone keeps buzzing throughout the night, while he's curled up on your sofa and he looks so small, so vulnerable, so innocent. You want, desperately, viciously, to corrupt him.

Instead, you let him sleep.

The fourth time, he has a cocky smirk on his face and he's wearing heels that make him only an inch or so shorter than you and he looks so much _happier_  than he did last time that you can't bear the thought of saying no to him, of letting that smile fall off of his face. He kisses you that night, and you pretend that you kiss back just to indulge him, but the reality is that you enjoy having him willing to submit to you just as much as he enjoys the idea of worshipping you, of hailing the ground you walk on. He falls asleep, half on the couch, half on you, and you don't have the heart to move him, so he wakes up half on you as well. Neither of you are sure how to feel about that.

The fifth time, he's drunk again, and crying again, and he plasters sloppy, vodka scented kisses along your jaw and down your neck, and you're so tempted to let him go further than that, but even you aren't evil enough to pursue someone who can't say no. Instead, you let him pass out in your bed and try and work out what has him so upset. There's nothing on him except his phone, which has been buzzing the whole night, someone texting him constantly. Driven by curiosity, and boredom, and maybe the desire to know how to get under Jacobi's skin, you turn on the phone. You don't have to unlock it, and honestly, does Jacobi even care? (You think about to you found him, alone and angry and so goddamn tired in a bar, and realise that no. He probably doesn't.)

The messages are from his father, you assume; after all, there aren't many other people that could have the name "Dad" in someone's contact list. The messages say pretty much all the same thing, but they don't make any sense - because whilst Jacobi's done some things that might merit him being called a monster, his father wouldn't know about those, and he isn't a freak, or a mistake, or a reject. You turn off the phone and slip into the bed, lying flat on top of the covers while he's curled up underneath them next to you.

You wake up before him the next day, and prepare a glass of water and some painkillers, leaving them on the bedside table for him while you go out for a run. He comes down to the kitchen a few hours after you come back, and he thanks you for taking care of him and kisses you in the same breath. You let him take it further this time, stripping off his shirt with your nimble fingers while he kisses down your neck. He flinches when you run your hands over the scars on his chest and don't say anything because that's not what this is, you're not going to reassure him that he's beautiful, you're just going to give him what he wants then send him out the door. You still look up, though, and ask him if this is okay, if he wants to stop because you might be a monster but you won't touch people like this without their permission. He tells you to carry on in a way that implies he might explode if you stop, so you strip him of his clothes and you're three fingers in him and he's writhing and panting, and you want to destroy his father because it really doesn't matter what body he was born in, a man this beautiful should never be made to feel like a freak, like a mistake, like anything less than perfect.

Of course, you don't tell him this, just let him come all over your fingers and suck you off, before you tell him to get dressed and to be at work bright and early tomorrow. Then you call Maxwell, tell her the phone number that you assume belongs to Jacobi's fuck up of a father, and tell her to ruin him.

She doesn't ask why you want to destroy this random man, why you asked her to ruin him instead of simply ending his life (she knows the answer to the second one, anyway - a slow and painful death is just that much more satisfying.) Her unwavering obedience, her instinctive loyalty is what makes her a good agent. Her intelligence, then, is what makes her a vital one.

A few months later, Jacobi tells you that his father's dead, that he killed himself, and you really should feel worse about it but you've just woken up next to the most beautiful person you know, and it seems like the weight of the world's been lifted off his shoulders, so instead of feeling remorseful, or guilty, (if you even have the capacity to feel those emotions left) you just feel a little lighter.

Jacobi cracks a smirk. "Hey, Warren," he says, and your name sounds so _right_  coming from his lips that you forgive him from the informality, "Wanna come to the funeral?"

You laugh. "Sure, Jacobi," you say, not wanting to taint the name he chose with the blackened cavity of your mouth. He understands that - at least, you hope he does. You're not going to explain it to him if he doesn't - talking about feelings is decidedly not what you do. Having feelings isn't really what you do, either.

You go, and Jacobi pretends to cry, and he reads an appropriately sad poem in an appropriately sad voice. He tells you on your way back that his father hated poetry with a burning passion, called it good for nothing artsy bullshit. You laugh. He smiles, beautifully, monstrously.

He leans in to kiss you, a movement you recognise and know, intimately, personally. But then, you do something that surprises the both of you.

You kiss him first. 


End file.
